Honeybee, page 1
HONEYBEE
Dawn O’Porter
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024
Copyright © Dawn O’Porter 2024
Cover design by Ellie Game / HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Cover Images: Shutterstock.com
Dawn O’Porter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008697075
Ebook Edition © September 2024 ISBN: 9780008697099
Version: 2024-08-14
Dedication
Dedicated to Aunty Jane and all the bees that worked so hard in our garden. Even the one that stung me on the head that day I skived off school. It was fair enough.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Drone
August 2001: Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part Two: Worker Bee
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three: Queen Bee
September 2001: Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue: Two weeks later
Author Note
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Dawn O’Porter
About the Publisher
Part One
Drone
A note, disguised as a paper aeroplane, is launched by Renée in a biology class in May 1995. It lands directly in front of Flo.
Flo, I’m livid that we’re stuck in this room while there is an entire world out there to discover. Like, do you know what stresses me out the most? That even if we bunked school, we’d still be stuck on this island. Think about it, there are about 69 (I think it’s actually 63 but 69 is funnier) thousand people here, but there are about 6 billion people in the world. They probably don’t even know we’re here. I bet you can’t even see Guernsey from space. We’re so insignificant (oooh, good word!). I want to be SIGNIFICANT FLO.
I dunno, I feel like we’re stuck in here getting sex education from a teacher who coughs every time she says sperm and makes sex sound like you’re buying a packet of ham from the supermarket. Is that diagram supposed to put us off cocks forever or what? It makes a man look like a watering can. It’s so … functional. She hasn’t even mentioned orgasms. Have you ever had one by the way?
ANYWAY, don’t you feel like everyone else is out there living actual life. With cool jobs and cool clothes and motorways that go for miles and miles. I feel like a prisoner. We are trapped. They are holding us hostage in this school. We could be more than this Flo. We could be out there making shit happen. Earning money, buying STUFF. But no, we’re stuck in here being shown drawings of genitals in a blatant attempt to stop us ever having sex. IT IS MADNESS FLO! WE CAN BE MORE THAN THIS. We deserve to be out there in the big world, SPREADING OUR LEGS (I mean wings, calm down!)!!!!!!
Also, apparently, Gem is going on the pill. IMAGINE me telling Pop I was having sex and wanted to go on the pill. He’d sew my knees together.
Ewww weird image in my head. OK, see you at lunch. THIS IS SO BORING.
Friends Forever,
Renée x
Flo writes quickly on the wing of the plane and sends it back when the teacher isn’t looking.
I like science. Stop throwing notes at me, I don’t need another detention because of you.
FF, Flo x
Renée replies by writing on the other wing and sends it back.
You love me really. Can’t wait for lunch, I’ve got a sausage roll x
AUGUST 2001
1
Renée
I worry constantly that I’m running out of time. When I’m lying on my deathbed, if I’m lucky enough to die in a bed, will I feel like I got it all done? Will I have succeeded in work and love? Will people have liked me? I really want people to have liked me. I want to have made an impact. I want people to remember my name. ‘Renée Sargent, I loved her work,’ is what I hope they will say, if I ever get round to creating any work. Will anyone care when I die? People get bored of me, or I get bored of them. It keeps happening. It’s like the real thing, or the big thing, is always just around the corner. Nothing ever feels like enough. When I get there, to this deathbed, will I have done ‘enough’?
I’m twenty-two and have no job, no home, no boyfriend, no real friends, and no idea what to do next. This was never my plan, and never who I thought I’d be at this age. Isn’t something miraculous supposed to happen to us at this point? Like a less physical version of puberty that turns us into adults? How are we supposed to know when it’s happened? There are things I have no idea how to do that adults just do instinctively. Like insurance claims, or mortgages. Or weekly shops with meal plans and clearing the room of naked feet when glasses get smashed, and always knowing where you put the dustpan and brush so you can sweep it away quickly. Receiving bottles of oils and vinegars as gifts and not being horribly disappointed that it isn’t a Miss Selfridge voucher. Having one glass of wine in front of the TV to relax, instead of going on a bender. Knowing when to put what bins out and always having clean underwear in your drawer. Where do I learn how to do all that? How do I fit a career into all this, when just existing feels like a full-time job?
I’ve been in Spain for the last couple of years, staying with my dad. He lives there with his new wife and kids, and the less said about him the better – as it turns out, he has no interest in being Dad of the Year when it comes to me. And now here I am again, back in Guernsey. The tiny island where big things happen. It’s been two weeks, and I’ve barely stepped out of Aunty Jo’s house. I mean, why would I? She’s so lovely it makes me wonder why I ever left. I haven’t been in contact with anyone from school yet. Apparently my old friends Carla and Gem both work in banks and Carla is engaged. Who the hell gets engaged at twenty-two? I can’t be bothered to meet up with them, hear about all their successes in life, and then have to tell them I have achieved nothing. I’m going to have to get out there at some point though, I need a job. I have zero money, and I want to save to move to London so I can start my inevitable career of being a world-famous writer.
It’s weird to feel so alone in the place I grew up, but I do. I never thought I’d be back. Pride is keeping me inside the house. Except today, intrigue has dragged me out to catch up with another old school friend. I say friend, but we were never actually friends. Sally de Putron is dead. Her funeral isn’t something I could miss.
As I look to the front of the crematorium and see her coffin, I wonder if in death there’s truly any such thing as hate. It all seems so trivial now. We were in the same class at Tudor Falls School for Girls from age three to sixteen, and we never once, not even once, got along during that time. It’s like we had a scrap over a toy in nursery and never made up. Destined to be arch enemies, always in combat, out to make each other feel awful. It makes me shudder, I’d never be arsed to be that way with anyone now: it feels so immature, so pointless. But we were kids, I suppose, can we blame it on that? I’m not a kid any more, apparently, so maybe.
There’s a very old version of Sally’s mum sitting at the front of the crematorium. Occasionally, her head bobs in time to the sound of her sobbing. There are only two other people on the pew with her: a lady, maybe her sister because when she turns to the side I notice she has a huge nose, like Sally; and a little boy, around five or six. That must be Sally’s son. She got pregnant with him as a teen. He’s just lost his mummy. I know how he feels. Maybe I should wait for him outside and whisper in his ear that his life is going to be OK regardless of this. Because despite my current dismal status, I think the thing that drives me forward the most is losing my mum when I was a kid. It gives me motivation to not just accept my disaster of a life. We are all running out of time. You can use it, or not. I choose to use it.
Sally’s was a rare form of cancer apparently. It must have been really bad because the Sally I knew never lost a fight. But even her own body turned against her. Not that it’s her fault, like my mum’s cancer wasn’t her fault either. Luck of the draw, I sup
There are about twenty people in the crematorium. Not much of a turnout for someone so young. Maybe Sally never changed, it’s likely she remained unlikable her entire life. All twenty-two years of it. I feel that the Renée who went to Tudor Falls School for Girls is a million miles from the Renée I am now. But Sally never left Guernsey. She had a kid when she was a teenager. Maybe she was always a grumpy cow who couldn’t hold down a true friendship. Judging by the poor turnout, I think that might be true. Although right now, if I died, who’s to say I’d attract a bigger crowd?
The notice about Sally’s death was in the Guernsey press a few weeks ago. It simply said, Mr and Mrs de Putron sadly announce the death of their daughter, Sally, aged twenty-two, after a short battle with cancer. She leaves behind one son, Martin, five years. It then listed the funeral details. I know her mum loved her but where were the words of affection? They could at least have thrown in a ‘beloved’.
The vicar is giving a eulogy. He probably never even met Sally. When I die, I want Aunty Jo to do my eulogy, I know she’d make it funny. That’s more important to me than anything else, that people think I’m fun.
‘A loving mother to Martin, Sally was known to book his birthday parties weeks in advance to ensure the Wimpy, his favourite restaurant, could accommodate him and his friends.’
Christ, did he just list Sally’s Wimpy bookings as one of the greatest things she ever did? I came here feeling like my life wasn’t moving forward, but if the most redeeming feature anyone thought to mention at my funeral was that I was excellent at advance bookings in fast-food restaurants, I’d get out of my coffin and crawl into the furnace myself.
The service is coming to an end. The vicar begins to speak those infamous words: ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
There is a creak from the back of the room. The door is opening. A bolt of sunlight is thrust into the room and illuminates the coffin, as if God himself is shining a light on Sally’s last few seconds on this earth. Everyone turns to see what angel created this moment. There is no angel. There is Flo.
Flo
I can’t believe I’m late.
My journey to the church has been suitably symbolic, considering I’m coming to pay my respects to someone who made my life absolute hell for a huge chunk of my teenage years. I missed my alarm this morning. It was 8 a.m. and my flight from Gatwick was at 10.30. I knew I’d probably miss it if I got the Tube, so I called a cab. I didn’t even have time to shower. The cab cost me nearly 100 quid, the traffic was awful because of a crash on the South Circular. I was so stressed in the car, and then got really sick because I was so hot and hungover and thirsty. I puked on the pavement at Gatwick Airport. When I got to the check-in desk, they said the flight was delayed by half an hour, but I still somehow managed to miss the call. I had to run to the gate and got there just in time. I felt so self-conscious and then saw that someone I went to school with was on the same flight. I pulled my top over my face and kept my head down. That’s the annoying thing about the Guernsey flights, there’s always someone I know on it.
I tried to fall asleep on the plane, but the man next to me kept asking me where to go on the island after I stupidly said I grew up here. At one point I was holding the sick bag under my face, and he still didn’t shut the fuck up. Once we landed, my suitcase took ages to come. Mum was supposed to be waiting for me but gave up when the flight was delayed: she texted me to say she had to go and meet a friend. I haven’t replied yet. Why couldn’t she just wait? Isn’t me moving back to Guernsey a big enough deal for her? Some things never change.
There were no taxis, but I eventually got one. The old man driver was so slow I could have run here quicker, and then of course I had to walk through a graveyard and up a massive hill dragging a giant suitcase containing nearly all my worldly belongings. In my haste, I had to leave a few things behind. I’ll have to go back to London to get them. I can’t think about that right now, or what happened there. More pressingly, why did I make all this effort for Sally?
I open the door slowly, it creaks, everyone turns to look. I keep my head down and quickly slide into the back pew. There aren’t many people here. I expected more. Why, I’m not sure. Sally was hardly Miss Guernsey. I daren’t look up for fear of making eye contact with someone from school, or Sally’s mum. I don’t want to see people. I just, for some sick reason, want to see Sally’s coffin. Not because I wanted her to die, I didn’t. But because I’ve tried to shake off the shame she made me feel at school all those years ago, but can’t. And I’m hoping that by actually watching her be rolled into a burning furnace, I will finally be able to find some closure.
As the coffin starts to move, the only other person on the pew slides closer to me. I notice my heart start to race, wondering who it might be. Someone from school? I don’t want to explain why I am here. Or lie about caring. Or not caring.
‘Hello,’ the person whispers into my ear. I turn to look. ‘JESUS CHRIST!’ I shout, like she’s a ghost who’s jumped out at me in a dark hallway. ‘Renée?’ Of all the people in the world I’d expect to see here, it wouldn’t be her. And now people are looking at me for the second time.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I whisper.
‘That’s blasphemy, Flo,’ she says, facetiously.
I feel my face getting hot. Sweat is gathering on my top lip and running into my mouth. I’m disgusting. Why is it so hot in here? Oh God, the furnace. I might be sick.
I reach into my bag for a tissue. There is only a dirty one. The only other thing in there is a pair of period-stained knickers that I had to change on the plane. I wipe my face on my sleeve. Adding to the grossness. I might as well have used the knickers.
‘Are you OK?’ Renée whispers, possibly genuinely concerned, as I do look like I might have a heart attack.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘Please stop talking.’
‘You don’t look fine,’ she continues. Because that is what Renée does. She keeps pushing until she gets what she wants. ‘You look a bit fucked, to be honest.’
‘Renée, will you please,’ I say, realising that people are starting to stand up. I look to the front, the coffin has gone. I didn’t even see it go in. The entire reason I came was to watch that happen. I don’t know why it was so important to me; it shouldn’t be, but it was. And I missed it. Because Renée is here, and that is so bloody typical of her and exactly why I haven’t spoken to her in almost three years.
Wow, is it three years?
‘Flo, you came,’ says a weeping Mrs de Putron, as she walks to the back of the crematorium. I didn’t want this. I was going to get out before anyone saw me. Luckily though, the back door has been opened and a lovely gust of cool hair brushes over my face, calming me right down.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say, hating myself for being so basic in my condolences. I wish I was better at thinking on my feet in awkward situations.
‘Yes, I was so sorry to hear about Sally, Mrs de Putron,’ Renée cuts in. ‘Flo and I have thought about her a lot over the years. We wanted to laugh with her about the old days and let bygones be bygones. Sally was a huge part of our lives at school, and we are devastated by this. Aren’t we Flo?’
How is she so articulate, it’s infuriating. I turn back to Mrs de Putron and say, ‘Absolutely.’
Mrs de Putron manages a small smile, before dropping her head again and leaving the crematorium. Soon it’s just Renée and me, alone.
